(no subject)
Title: Don't Say Anything
Author: Me, more_unknown
Pairing: Evgeni Malkin/Sidney Crosby. . .Evgeni's POV.
Summary: Oh, those unspoken bonds. Gotta love 'em.
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 4 of 4
Disclaimer: I made all of this up. If I didn't, I'd want to see documented proof that I didn't. Don't own them, either. Obviously.
Sorry it took me so long to finish this. Here are parts one, two, and three. I hope you enjoyed this little series. . .ahahaha.
jisforjane. . .still dedicated to her. And to all of you if you're still reading, haha.
Practice that day had been surprisingly not awkward. There were looks shared between us that were mutually intelligent, mutually understanding--but there was a lot of warmth lost between us. I could tell. We still had that fire in our eyes, about winning, about the team, about our game. But we hardly had any fire left about each other. I wanted to be relieved, wanted to think that this little experiment was over, but there was something inside me that wouldn't let that happen. I could barely function in my day-to-day life without thinking about him. I thought that this was a new development, until I realized that I had generally thought about him every day since I'd first met him. He'd been such an inspiration. Oh god, and I'd ruined it.
I avoided life in general for the next few days, pouring myself entirely into hockey and working out and eating and sitting in the living room in sweatpants watching cartoons at night. I didn't answer the phone. I felt healthier, stronger, more awake, like a fucking champion. I also felt empty.
Sometimes, I would catch myself questioning my ability to feel, and I would draw out a memory or a sensation just like pulling a book off a shelf. My first hat trick. Losing my virginity. A good cup of coffee. The way I feel when an airplane lands in Russia and I'm on it. My mother being proud of me. Getting drafted by the Penguins. Shaking Mario Lemieux's hand. Trying to get out of the Russian Super League. The lawsuits. Finally making it to America. Not understanding English. Phone calls with my family. Meeting my teammates for the first time. Seeing the Moscow skyline from the top of a hill. The smell of autumn. Meeting Sid for the first time. The way his hands felt. The way he smelled. The way his tongue felt. The way he. . .
But it was all irrelevant now. I could put that shit right back on the shelf again. I knew I could feel. It was just on pause, and I wasn't sure if starting it again was even worth it.
So I buried all of those feelings. I tried to talk more. Everyone noticed, everyone was pleased with how happy I seemed all of a sudden. We were all dicking around in the locker room one day when Max had an idea that we should all get really dressed up and blow some money, as a team, on a huge dinner. "But manly, you know? Steaks and shit." I seconded this emphatically. And so it was decided. Victory over the Islanders was a good cause. Once back in Pittsburgh, we started trying to come up with the most absurd places we could go. Where would we be seen most as inappropriate and out of place? Where would foul-mouthed hockey players be the least appreciated? Those were the kinds of questions we asked ourselves. We decided on a place the night before we would fly to Detroit to face whatever was coming there. A lot of guys bowed out, citing family time or girlfriend time as an excuse, but there will still a few of us willing to go.
The point wasn't, you must understand, to make asses of ourselves in public. We were responsible about our team image. We didn't plan on getting drunk, being rude, or making our presence too obvious. It was just something to do. It made me feel fucking reckless, in a way, since I was wasting time and money and didn't care. It was a great feeling, like stepping outside for the first time in days, like getting over a cold that wouldn't go away, like taking a cold shower on the hottest day of summer.
A lot of us were piled into Gill's Escalade; manning the other SUV full of dudes in suits was Letang. Crosby was in the back seat of the Escalade with me and I was pretending he wasn't. We'd both worn pinstripes--though my suit was black and his was dark sand-colored. I inadvertently thought back to my literature classes in school. In this scene, I am dressed in black to parallel the nighttime and he's. . .
I stopped that train of thought quickly. I didn't like being a character. I was fine enough being me, whoever the hell that was. I looked over at him as we drove and all of the nighttime city lights framed his head like a halo. . .
Too many similes. I am not a character. He is not a character. But I couldn't convince myself of either of these things.
I ordered wine at dinner, and a rare steak. Just another in a series of long nights. The conversation around the white linen tablecloth filtered in and out of my ears and I was barely listening.
Eventually, warmth started hovering over the table as everyone's conversations became individualized, encapsulated, around the one giant dinner table. Letang was telling Kennedy a story about how he almost crashed his car on Route 51. Orpik was telling Dupuis about swordfighting lessons he'd taken in high school. Cooke and Zigomanis were arguing about the superiority of various imported beers. I tried to jump into one of these side conversations, multiple times, but nothing was clicking--my English kept fucking me up. And suddenly I was staring across the table at Sid, languidly sipping my wine and swishing the blood around on my plate. We were the only ones not speaking.
Sid gave me a weak, conciliatory smile, which I stared at, dumbly, daring him to say something. "Are we just going to do this awkward thing all night?" he asked.
"Maybe," I said, gutturally, noticing the way his lips made the words. I had only put away two small glasses of wine so the utter calescence rising in my heart couldn't have been induced by alcohol.
"I'm sorry for being a dick," he said. "It's been killing me for days. I should never have treated you like that."
I nodded. He wasn't getting off that easily. I chanced a playful kick at his shins under the table, which then became a caress. I'd never played footsie before--the opportunity hadn't presented itself. No one seemed to notice that he and I were looking at each other, stunned expressions on our faces. I felt like such an idiot. It didn't matter.
By then, the dinner was winding down. We were all throwing $50's down on the table. We were passing the check around and laughing at the hugeness of the number. I guess being able to afford something like that is telling of what it is like to have a professional sports salary. Crosby would know better than I would, yet his $50 was the last to hit the table. It was like he was ashamed to take his wallet out and show how much money he had. No one even cared. I wanted to smack him for being so modest. And other things, too, for that matter.
We walked outside ahead of the crowd, or, rather, I followed him. We stopped in the parking lot, far away from the haze of smokers who had crowded around the restaurant exit.
"It's funny," Sid said. "These people can afford to eat here. I guess when you have money to blow it doesn't matter if you're destroying your body." He hates smokers and doesn't mind talking about it. He prides himself on his body like no one else I've ever seen. Yet you can still see the embarrassment on his face when he has to remind everyone that all of his pants are custom-made. Perfection can be embarrassing.
"What do you want to do?" I asked him.
In response, he just gave a lopsided smile, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked up into the blank night sky with an expression on his face that was more than mischievous. I guess I took it upon myself to interpret that. I wanted him back at my place.
So, when we were all piled into the car again, he and I did not sit next to each other. We didn't look at each other. We didn't want to ruin it. He got out at his place first, and then I at mine. Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking at my door and after I answered it I wordlessly dragged him upstairs. He was still wearing his suit, but I hoped to change that.
This time, as we stood next to my bed, I kissed him first. I wasn't one to kiss first, usually, but this time it was my job, and I made passionate work of it. My tongue moved hard and fast, deep into his mouth and then out again as I occasionally gave him respite from the kiss and paid forceful attention to his neck. "Hey. . ." he said. Gasping. Moaning. I loved the way it sounded. "Be careful, don't leave any marks. . .aaaaahhhhhhhh shit. Oh, oh," he said, his breathing heavier and heavier. It was too late for not leaving marks by the time he said it, so I figured I might as well go to town.
As I pulled back, I noticed how vulnerable he suddenly was. His entire face was red, his neck was covered in bruises, his hair was a mess. I'd successfully dominated him for that moment. It was a strange feeling.
I took his jacket off for him and tossed it on the ground at our feet. I then started unbuttoning his shirt, which was blue, contrasting the increasing redness of his skin underneath. I undid his belt, unzipped his pants, reached inside to grab his thigh. The whole time he was looking up at me, his mouth slightly open. Eventually, he managed to whisper something at me, as I continued in my deliberateness to get him naked. "This isn't fair," he said. My only response was to bend down and kiss his hips. He liked it. He wasn't going to lie.
I used my advantage in size to force him down onto the bed once I'd gotten most of his clothes off. The only thing left was the button-down shirt, now unbuttoned. He tried to pull me down with him, and he was indeed strong enough to do it, but I resisted just enough and kept my feet on the ground. I started undressing myself--slowly. It wasn't a striptease, it wasn't a performance, it was just very deliberate. Every movement I made was punctuated with the sound of fabric and leather and friction. The tug of my belt, the loosening of my tie, the rustle of my jacket as it fell to the floor on top of Sid's pants. I took my wallet out of my back pocket, detached the chain, and neatly placed it on the bedside table. I was standing in a small ocean of pinstripes and my pants weren't even off yet.
"Did you do it that night?" Sid asked.
"What?" I said.
"Did you have sex with that girl? Were you in this room?"
"No, no," I said. "She left. We did not, uh. . .we did not have sex." The word "sex" is pretty much the same in Russian as in English, at its barest form, but no matter what it wasn't a word I liked to say. I would have been euphemistic, but again the language barrier failed me.
The expression on his face told me that hadn't been enough. I needed to say something else.
"I. . .you called me. I realize I did not want her anyway," I added, slowly. The time seemed right. I took my pants off, and we took the occasion to stare at each other, blankly, inexplicably in a hole where time had stopped and neither of us could draw breath or move. Was this happening? Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
"What did you want?" he asked.
I didn't answer. Instead I clumsily climbed on top of him, allowing my erection to rest on his stomach. He felt it before he saw it, and for a very fleeting second I thought he was going to push me off, change his mind, but he relaxed soon enough.
"Why me?" I asked him. Looking down at him was awkward, as I was too busy being tall and lanky to get coordinated. He was more compact, more muscular, he could balance better. But it was my place and it felt right. I admitted that to myself before I bent down and kissed him--he didn't have to answer the question if he didn't want to, just as I hadn't had to answer his question to me. I was sweet this time, less aggressive, and he responded in the most subtle, fragile way, with all of that pompousness and leadership breaking down before my eyes, into my mouth, beneath my weight.
He tensed. He embraced me. He kissed back. I'd never felt anything like it before in my entire life. No one that strong had ever kissed me that hard or hugged me that passionately, no one that strong had ever wrapped their arms around me like that. I wrapped my own arms around him, hoping to create the same feeling. We rolled around like that for awhile, kissing, exchanging positions, embracing, our skin getting warmer and warmer the whole time. His shirt came off at some point. We were both obviously aroused by the behavior, but there was something else in it, a genuine understanding. We knew where we stood.
At one point in the middle of all of this, I was looking up at him, and he smiled for what seemed like the first time since we'd gotten involved in all of this nakedness stuff. "What's next, do you think?" he asked me, and I smiled back, knowing exactly what I wanted to do, almost instinctively. He hadn't quite come up with the answer yet, but when I rolled him over and started kissing his back, he connected the dots. He moved impatiently as I tortured him with all of those little touches and kisses. I knew his back was sensitive, and some parts of it were scarred or bruised, so I tried to be gentle. I could sense the roughness of my own hands as I worked my arm underneath him, pulling him closer to me.
I rested my chin on his shoulder, and I could see the corner of his one dark eye, which looked enraptured and blissful at the sight of my face. I liked what was happening here. There was a wholeness in my heart that hadn't been there in awhile. I didn't want to think about what it might be--that was far too sacred or forbidden for my mind to even consider as words jumped over each other in my head. "Ya dumayu, ya l'ubl'u tebya," I said.
"What?" he said, confused, his voice cracking.
I paused. I hadn't been speaking English, had I? "Nothing," I said. I reached for a bottle of lube that was in my bedside table, and I applied it where it needed to be. I grabbed a condom. Sorry, readers, but some parts of sex just aren't sexy. It was awkward to do. He moved uncomfortably. I kissed the back of his neck for reassurance.
And I put myself inside him. Who expected this? He half-screamed at the feeling as I lost all ability to breathe normally. I was still shocked at what I'd said, whether he'd understood or not. I hoped that I would be able to show him what I meant before I had to say it again, in English, which would be much more difficult now that I was overthinking it and. . .
I thrust inside him hard and fast. He screamed my name, not my nickname, but Evgeni. I kissed the back of his neck some more and it drove him absolutely fucking crazy. I tried to get a hand on his penis and help him out, but I'd barely touched him before he came, and it didn't take me long to go myself afterwards. It had been fast, passionate, and, now that it was over, messy as hell. All of the heady passion that had been swarming my head did a nosedive into uncontrollable laughter as I cleaned up with a sheet, and Sid curled up in a ball on one side of the bed, his eyes watching me walk stupidly around the room naked, my penis not quite back to normal size. He was smiling, laughing with me in a silent way. "Too much foreplay," he said. "We'll have to work on that."
I sat on the bed next to him, his back still to me as he maintained his fetal position. I poked him and he rolled over, his face suddenly concerned. I knew what question he was about to ask.
"I think I love you," I said. It sounded real to me in English, too. Perhaps I hadn't overthought it.
"I don't have to think about it. I never have." His face was totally glowing. I wanted to look away, sure as I was that the look on my face was an idiotic crooked-teeth grin irreconcilable with anything going on inside my own head. But I kept my gaze on him.
"What does it mean?"
"Not a clue," Sid said. "Here's to hoping we find out in a way that isn't awkward or embarrassing."
We laid down next to each other, looking in each other's eyes a bit. It was different looking into his eyes than anyone else's, because he knew so much about me that I was always afraid to say.
I started to speak, stumbled over a word, muttered an apology. I raised my eyebrows at him. I thought I might die in that moment. Why couldn't I ever get anything out?
"It's okay," he said. He moved closer. I felt my arm close around his shoulder and the warmth there astounded me. "You don't have to say anything."
Author: Me, more_unknown
Pairing: Evgeni Malkin/Sidney Crosby. . .Evgeni's POV.
Summary: Oh, those unspoken bonds. Gotta love 'em.
Rating: NC-17
Chapter: 4 of 4
Disclaimer: I made all of this up. If I didn't, I'd want to see documented proof that I didn't. Don't own them, either. Obviously.
Sorry it took me so long to finish this. Here are parts one, two, and three. I hope you enjoyed this little series. . .ahahaha.
jisforjane. . .still dedicated to her. And to all of you if you're still reading, haha.
Practice that day had been surprisingly not awkward. There were looks shared between us that were mutually intelligent, mutually understanding--but there was a lot of warmth lost between us. I could tell. We still had that fire in our eyes, about winning, about the team, about our game. But we hardly had any fire left about each other. I wanted to be relieved, wanted to think that this little experiment was over, but there was something inside me that wouldn't let that happen. I could barely function in my day-to-day life without thinking about him. I thought that this was a new development, until I realized that I had generally thought about him every day since I'd first met him. He'd been such an inspiration. Oh god, and I'd ruined it.
I avoided life in general for the next few days, pouring myself entirely into hockey and working out and eating and sitting in the living room in sweatpants watching cartoons at night. I didn't answer the phone. I felt healthier, stronger, more awake, like a fucking champion. I also felt empty.
Sometimes, I would catch myself questioning my ability to feel, and I would draw out a memory or a sensation just like pulling a book off a shelf. My first hat trick. Losing my virginity. A good cup of coffee. The way I feel when an airplane lands in Russia and I'm on it. My mother being proud of me. Getting drafted by the Penguins. Shaking Mario Lemieux's hand. Trying to get out of the Russian Super League. The lawsuits. Finally making it to America. Not understanding English. Phone calls with my family. Meeting my teammates for the first time. Seeing the Moscow skyline from the top of a hill. The smell of autumn. Meeting Sid for the first time. The way his hands felt. The way he smelled. The way his tongue felt. The way he. . .
But it was all irrelevant now. I could put that shit right back on the shelf again. I knew I could feel. It was just on pause, and I wasn't sure if starting it again was even worth it.
So I buried all of those feelings. I tried to talk more. Everyone noticed, everyone was pleased with how happy I seemed all of a sudden. We were all dicking around in the locker room one day when Max had an idea that we should all get really dressed up and blow some money, as a team, on a huge dinner. "But manly, you know? Steaks and shit." I seconded this emphatically. And so it was decided. Victory over the Islanders was a good cause. Once back in Pittsburgh, we started trying to come up with the most absurd places we could go. Where would we be seen most as inappropriate and out of place? Where would foul-mouthed hockey players be the least appreciated? Those were the kinds of questions we asked ourselves. We decided on a place the night before we would fly to Detroit to face whatever was coming there. A lot of guys bowed out, citing family time or girlfriend time as an excuse, but there will still a few of us willing to go.
The point wasn't, you must understand, to make asses of ourselves in public. We were responsible about our team image. We didn't plan on getting drunk, being rude, or making our presence too obvious. It was just something to do. It made me feel fucking reckless, in a way, since I was wasting time and money and didn't care. It was a great feeling, like stepping outside for the first time in days, like getting over a cold that wouldn't go away, like taking a cold shower on the hottest day of summer.
A lot of us were piled into Gill's Escalade; manning the other SUV full of dudes in suits was Letang. Crosby was in the back seat of the Escalade with me and I was pretending he wasn't. We'd both worn pinstripes--though my suit was black and his was dark sand-colored. I inadvertently thought back to my literature classes in school. In this scene, I am dressed in black to parallel the nighttime and he's. . .
I stopped that train of thought quickly. I didn't like being a character. I was fine enough being me, whoever the hell that was. I looked over at him as we drove and all of the nighttime city lights framed his head like a halo. . .
Too many similes. I am not a character. He is not a character. But I couldn't convince myself of either of these things.
I ordered wine at dinner, and a rare steak. Just another in a series of long nights. The conversation around the white linen tablecloth filtered in and out of my ears and I was barely listening.
Eventually, warmth started hovering over the table as everyone's conversations became individualized, encapsulated, around the one giant dinner table. Letang was telling Kennedy a story about how he almost crashed his car on Route 51. Orpik was telling Dupuis about swordfighting lessons he'd taken in high school. Cooke and Zigomanis were arguing about the superiority of various imported beers. I tried to jump into one of these side conversations, multiple times, but nothing was clicking--my English kept fucking me up. And suddenly I was staring across the table at Sid, languidly sipping my wine and swishing the blood around on my plate. We were the only ones not speaking.
Sid gave me a weak, conciliatory smile, which I stared at, dumbly, daring him to say something. "Are we just going to do this awkward thing all night?" he asked.
"Maybe," I said, gutturally, noticing the way his lips made the words. I had only put away two small glasses of wine so the utter calescence rising in my heart couldn't have been induced by alcohol.
"I'm sorry for being a dick," he said. "It's been killing me for days. I should never have treated you like that."
I nodded. He wasn't getting off that easily. I chanced a playful kick at his shins under the table, which then became a caress. I'd never played footsie before--the opportunity hadn't presented itself. No one seemed to notice that he and I were looking at each other, stunned expressions on our faces. I felt like such an idiot. It didn't matter.
By then, the dinner was winding down. We were all throwing $50's down on the table. We were passing the check around and laughing at the hugeness of the number. I guess being able to afford something like that is telling of what it is like to have a professional sports salary. Crosby would know better than I would, yet his $50 was the last to hit the table. It was like he was ashamed to take his wallet out and show how much money he had. No one even cared. I wanted to smack him for being so modest. And other things, too, for that matter.
We walked outside ahead of the crowd, or, rather, I followed him. We stopped in the parking lot, far away from the haze of smokers who had crowded around the restaurant exit.
"It's funny," Sid said. "These people can afford to eat here. I guess when you have money to blow it doesn't matter if you're destroying your body." He hates smokers and doesn't mind talking about it. He prides himself on his body like no one else I've ever seen. Yet you can still see the embarrassment on his face when he has to remind everyone that all of his pants are custom-made. Perfection can be embarrassing.
"What do you want to do?" I asked him.
In response, he just gave a lopsided smile, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked up into the blank night sky with an expression on his face that was more than mischievous. I guess I took it upon myself to interpret that. I wanted him back at my place.
So, when we were all piled into the car again, he and I did not sit next to each other. We didn't look at each other. We didn't want to ruin it. He got out at his place first, and then I at mine. Fifteen minutes later, he was knocking at my door and after I answered it I wordlessly dragged him upstairs. He was still wearing his suit, but I hoped to change that.
This time, as we stood next to my bed, I kissed him first. I wasn't one to kiss first, usually, but this time it was my job, and I made passionate work of it. My tongue moved hard and fast, deep into his mouth and then out again as I occasionally gave him respite from the kiss and paid forceful attention to his neck. "Hey. . ." he said. Gasping. Moaning. I loved the way it sounded. "Be careful, don't leave any marks. . .aaaaahhhhhhhh shit. Oh, oh," he said, his breathing heavier and heavier. It was too late for not leaving marks by the time he said it, so I figured I might as well go to town.
As I pulled back, I noticed how vulnerable he suddenly was. His entire face was red, his neck was covered in bruises, his hair was a mess. I'd successfully dominated him for that moment. It was a strange feeling.
I took his jacket off for him and tossed it on the ground at our feet. I then started unbuttoning his shirt, which was blue, contrasting the increasing redness of his skin underneath. I undid his belt, unzipped his pants, reached inside to grab his thigh. The whole time he was looking up at me, his mouth slightly open. Eventually, he managed to whisper something at me, as I continued in my deliberateness to get him naked. "This isn't fair," he said. My only response was to bend down and kiss his hips. He liked it. He wasn't going to lie.
I used my advantage in size to force him down onto the bed once I'd gotten most of his clothes off. The only thing left was the button-down shirt, now unbuttoned. He tried to pull me down with him, and he was indeed strong enough to do it, but I resisted just enough and kept my feet on the ground. I started undressing myself--slowly. It wasn't a striptease, it wasn't a performance, it was just very deliberate. Every movement I made was punctuated with the sound of fabric and leather and friction. The tug of my belt, the loosening of my tie, the rustle of my jacket as it fell to the floor on top of Sid's pants. I took my wallet out of my back pocket, detached the chain, and neatly placed it on the bedside table. I was standing in a small ocean of pinstripes and my pants weren't even off yet.
"Did you do it that night?" Sid asked.
"What?" I said.
"Did you have sex with that girl? Were you in this room?"
"No, no," I said. "She left. We did not, uh. . .we did not have sex." The word "sex" is pretty much the same in Russian as in English, at its barest form, but no matter what it wasn't a word I liked to say. I would have been euphemistic, but again the language barrier failed me.
The expression on his face told me that hadn't been enough. I needed to say something else.
"I. . .you called me. I realize I did not want her anyway," I added, slowly. The time seemed right. I took my pants off, and we took the occasion to stare at each other, blankly, inexplicably in a hole where time had stopped and neither of us could draw breath or move. Was this happening? Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
"What did you want?" he asked.
I didn't answer. Instead I clumsily climbed on top of him, allowing my erection to rest on his stomach. He felt it before he saw it, and for a very fleeting second I thought he was going to push me off, change his mind, but he relaxed soon enough.
"Why me?" I asked him. Looking down at him was awkward, as I was too busy being tall and lanky to get coordinated. He was more compact, more muscular, he could balance better. But it was my place and it felt right. I admitted that to myself before I bent down and kissed him--he didn't have to answer the question if he didn't want to, just as I hadn't had to answer his question to me. I was sweet this time, less aggressive, and he responded in the most subtle, fragile way, with all of that pompousness and leadership breaking down before my eyes, into my mouth, beneath my weight.
He tensed. He embraced me. He kissed back. I'd never felt anything like it before in my entire life. No one that strong had ever kissed me that hard or hugged me that passionately, no one that strong had ever wrapped their arms around me like that. I wrapped my own arms around him, hoping to create the same feeling. We rolled around like that for awhile, kissing, exchanging positions, embracing, our skin getting warmer and warmer the whole time. His shirt came off at some point. We were both obviously aroused by the behavior, but there was something else in it, a genuine understanding. We knew where we stood.
At one point in the middle of all of this, I was looking up at him, and he smiled for what seemed like the first time since we'd gotten involved in all of this nakedness stuff. "What's next, do you think?" he asked me, and I smiled back, knowing exactly what I wanted to do, almost instinctively. He hadn't quite come up with the answer yet, but when I rolled him over and started kissing his back, he connected the dots. He moved impatiently as I tortured him with all of those little touches and kisses. I knew his back was sensitive, and some parts of it were scarred or bruised, so I tried to be gentle. I could sense the roughness of my own hands as I worked my arm underneath him, pulling him closer to me.
I rested my chin on his shoulder, and I could see the corner of his one dark eye, which looked enraptured and blissful at the sight of my face. I liked what was happening here. There was a wholeness in my heart that hadn't been there in awhile. I didn't want to think about what it might be--that was far too sacred or forbidden for my mind to even consider as words jumped over each other in my head. "Ya dumayu, ya l'ubl'u tebya," I said.
"What?" he said, confused, his voice cracking.
I paused. I hadn't been speaking English, had I? "Nothing," I said. I reached for a bottle of lube that was in my bedside table, and I applied it where it needed to be. I grabbed a condom. Sorry, readers, but some parts of sex just aren't sexy. It was awkward to do. He moved uncomfortably. I kissed the back of his neck for reassurance.
And I put myself inside him. Who expected this? He half-screamed at the feeling as I lost all ability to breathe normally. I was still shocked at what I'd said, whether he'd understood or not. I hoped that I would be able to show him what I meant before I had to say it again, in English, which would be much more difficult now that I was overthinking it and. . .
I thrust inside him hard and fast. He screamed my name, not my nickname, but Evgeni. I kissed the back of his neck some more and it drove him absolutely fucking crazy. I tried to get a hand on his penis and help him out, but I'd barely touched him before he came, and it didn't take me long to go myself afterwards. It had been fast, passionate, and, now that it was over, messy as hell. All of the heady passion that had been swarming my head did a nosedive into uncontrollable laughter as I cleaned up with a sheet, and Sid curled up in a ball on one side of the bed, his eyes watching me walk stupidly around the room naked, my penis not quite back to normal size. He was smiling, laughing with me in a silent way. "Too much foreplay," he said. "We'll have to work on that."
I sat on the bed next to him, his back still to me as he maintained his fetal position. I poked him and he rolled over, his face suddenly concerned. I knew what question he was about to ask.
"I think I love you," I said. It sounded real to me in English, too. Perhaps I hadn't overthought it.
"I don't have to think about it. I never have." His face was totally glowing. I wanted to look away, sure as I was that the look on my face was an idiotic crooked-teeth grin irreconcilable with anything going on inside my own head. But I kept my gaze on him.
"What does it mean?"
"Not a clue," Sid said. "Here's to hoping we find out in a way that isn't awkward or embarrassing."
We laid down next to each other, looking in each other's eyes a bit. It was different looking into his eyes than anyone else's, because he knew so much about me that I was always afraid to say.
I started to speak, stumbled over a word, muttered an apology. I raised my eyebrows at him. I thought I might die in that moment. Why couldn't I ever get anything out?
"It's okay," he said. He moved closer. I felt my arm close around his shoulder and the warmth there astounded me. "You don't have to say anything."